Page 34 of Save Us
“Oh, what time is it?”
“Quarter to eleven, dear,” she answers me, looking at her fancy gold watch. It is small, delicate, and beautiful, just like she is.
“Oh, I need to take one of my tablets,” I gasp, looking a little anxiously back at the house where I am about to speak to the mysterious stranger on Kai’s phone. “Sorry, Elsie, it’s been lovely talking to you.”
“Anytime, Beth,” she replies with her usual smile, before we quietly walk back to the house, returning to talking about nothing subjects again.
Chapter 14
Beth
It’s two minutes to the hour, and I’m anxiously pacing about my room while rubbing my sweaty palms together. The whole time I’m staring at the block of a phone that is sitting like a taunting mystery on top of my bed. Leo had asked if I wanted him to stay with me, but I said it would be better if he kept outside, if only so he can warn me of any oncoming visitors, like my grandfather. Just thinking of calling him by that name makes me feel like I want to vomit. It still horrifies me to know that we are related by blood.
My violent and vengeful thoughts are interrupted by the vibrations of the phone against my bed. Taking in a deep breath, I quickly tap on the door to let Leo know it’s showtime. I know he’ll warn me if anyone approaches, so allow myself to let out a long breath of relief. With trembling hands, I pick up the phone and press down on the squashy green button.
“Hello?” I ask so quietly it will be a wonder if he even heard me.
“Mrs Lawrence? Hello.” A man who sounds nothing like the creepy guy from the park, answers with distinctive confidence in his tone. Whoever he is, cannot hide the disdain in his voice when he utters my surname, even if he does try to cover it with an immediate clearing of his throat. “My name is Xander Fenton.”
I let out a small, stunned gasp and almost drop the phone.
“Mrs Lawrence? Are you still there?”
“Y-yes,” I squeak, then cough and splutter to actually try and clear my throat, being that it now feels like it’s closing up altogether.
Midway through a rather unattractive noise, I realize I might need to disguise my voice, for now that I know who he really is, I wonder how I didn’t recognize it straight away. Before I can say anything else, however, I blink away some wayward tears and breathe in and out slowly before I lose hold of my senses.
“Sorry, I wasn’t expecting you, Mr Fenton,” I finally manage to say in a voice that sounds a little softer than my usual tone. It sounds so forced and alien, it causes me to cringe.
“Who were you expecting, Mrs Lawrence?” he asks with curiosity and the hint of a smug smirk. The sound of which almost has me laughing. Almost.
“I don’t know, Mr Fenton,” I reply a little more confidently, slipping back into a role when he and I could bicker and flirt freely; before everything was taken from me. “Why would you, of all people, be calling the wife of someone you hate?”
This earns me a chuckle, the sexy chuckle I used to melt over, even though I was probably pretending to be angry with him. It makes me smile widely and with my teeth on show. A smile I haven’t felt in such a long time, I’m surprised I even know how to use it.
“I heard about your recent ‘accident’,” he explains, then pauses for some sort of reaction I don’t offer him. “I was wondering how you’re recovering. Better, I hope?”
“No, you weren’t,” I reply bluntly, “you were wondering if my husband had anything to do with it.”
He laughs quietly, as though admitting defeat while simultaneously realizing I’m not going to be such an easy pushover. He no doubt thought the down beaten wife of Oliver Lawrence would be easy to manipulate into sharing information I don’t want to give him.
“You remind me of someone, Mrs Lawrence,” he says softly to himself, before going quiet again.
“Who do I remind you of, Mr Fenton?” I ask, for I can’t help myself. I hear him sigh loudly on the other end of the call, as though he regrets letting that admission slip out.
“So, did he?” he asks me outright, and with a hint of irritation, though I can’t be sure of who it’s being aimed at, me or himself.
“You know I can’t tell you that,” I reply, “you of all people know how dangerous my husband is. Imagine living with that danger, Mr Fenton, imagine it sleeping with you in your bed.”
“I’m sorry,” he says in a way that tells me his apology is genuine.
“Tell me about her, this person I remind you of.” As the words spill out of my mouth, I screw up my face with guilt. I have obviously fallen into the realms of irrationality, not to mention selfishness. I try to cover my blunt instruction by stating, “I guess we were related in some distant way.”
“I don’t discuss her…with anyone. Only her daughter and her close family,” he replies curtly.
“But I’m up for discussion? Is that how this works?” I counter and just as curtly, for I’m now feeling a mixed-up cocktail of emotions, ranging from anger to guilt.
“I don’t know. Are you, Angela?”